reaching out

I reach out
I reach out again

just reaching

just enough to understand
the feeling that comes with

reaching out

memory

a small ripple
a wave,
a tsunami.
the sound
of a promise
surrendering
to a memory

a dog barks

wind in the pines
a soft whisper
a dog barks
the wind stops
then continues again

There

i ended up there,

close enough

to reach out

but not quite

always just out of reach

trying to understand what kept pulling at me

during the late hours

in the stillness

but that feeling of being so close

felt like pressing my hands

against a pane of glass

unable to break through

unable to really live

only able to see the

almost that was just beyond

brambles and thorns

The raspberry tasted of youth.
‘How simple
this is,’
I thought, as I waited for
the coffee to brew.
It is raining today,
a cold rain,
a December rain.
It is only a few weeks away
from the solstice.
The days move so swiftly,
rushing after something I can’t quite see.
As I stood watching the rain
and eating the raspberries
that tasted of youth,
I tried to understand
how time keeps moving;
how this day seems to rush by
toward something I can’t see.
It was never like this
in my youth;
Time used to move gently.
I’d stand amongst the raspberries,
free from care,
just careful not to get pricked by the tiny thorns,
and eat, and eat, and eat.
I began to understand,
pulling myself out of my thoughts
and pouring my coffee,
that the raspberry patch was
my kingdom,
I felt safe there
tucked hidden in the thick brambles and thorns.
the world outside
was full of turmoil;
there was a man out there who was so fierce
that a few scratches
from the inside of my kingdom,
my sanctuary,
paled in comparison
to his anger.

geese

snow melts

geese fly overhead

their wings

a steady pattern

they call out to each other

as they continue their journey

heading toward a destination

and leaving another place

questions linger

questions fade

the steady pattern of wings

the waters

i tested the waters

dipping my toes

but the lake was made of silence

that had turned a perfect blue

days

the calendar blurred
the
boundaries between the
days;
we are
navigating silently,
where we are.

language

I could
but the key to the lock
was a
forgotten language
its words lost
to time and silence.

Do they eat old food?

Is it a chickadee or a nuthatch?
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.
The feeder rests
under the overhang.
I hold my breath and stay still as they come,
their delicate beaks
extracting a single seed;
Their thanks seem to glow in the morning air.
I should replace their food.
How old is it?
Do they eat old food?
I feel unsure about this
and so many other things.
If I take down the feeder,
They might think it’s gone and fly away.
It would take 5 minutes
to refill
but to them,
Maybe that pause feels like five hours or even five months to them.
The rain has made them hurry
when they feed.
They swoop in and quickly fly away
as they flash against the gray sky.
I sit quietly, letting my coffee cool as I watch.
These are only brief moments
for me
Yet for a chickadee, it might be a lifetime
Or perhaps a nuthatch
I find myself unsure about this
and so many other things.